


only thing worth taking

by sneakiest



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Come Swallowing, Dirty Talk, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Massage, blowjob, descriptions of pain/injury, dom/sub dynamic, evolving relationship dynamic, feelings!!!, handjob, inappropriate use of Tiger Balm, sensation play verging on pain play, some gentle degradation, surprise erection!, use of the color system
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-16 16:41:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29952867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sneakiest/pseuds/sneakiest
Summary: Doyoung stubbornly focuses on his task. He takes notice of the way Taeyong's skin dimples under pressure and then floods with color, like a blush; he discerns exactly where Taeyong's skinny thighs get any extra padding; he hears the tiny moan of relief Taeyong gives when he works an especially taut muscle; he feels his heartbeat counting like a metronome in his ears, but he allows none of it to have any meaning, any impact. For him to do anything else would be an offense to Taeyong and their friendship.--Or: A well-intended therapeutic massage escalates quickly.
Relationships: Kim Dongyoung | Doyoung/Lee Taeyong
Comments: 66
Kudos: 399





	only thing worth taking

**Author's Note:**

> I knew one day I'd snap and write a filthy DoTae oneshot, and that day is finally here! Please heed the tags. This is relatively mild BDSM, but it is definitely still kinky, and there's some sensation/pain play, dirty talk (including use of the word "slut" and a blink-and-you'll-miss-it degrading comment about the size of Taeyong's dick), and a whole truckload of repressed feelings suddenly unleashed. DoTae in almost any form fascinate me; I hope everyone enjoys this take!
> 
> Special thanks to snarla for being in DoTae hell with me, and to the Birdwatchers crew for their enthusiasm and extremely distracting DMs. 😍 Oh, and thanks to Rum for playlist suggestions.
> 
> Title from "Pretty Boy" by The Neighbourhood.

Taeyong was gone long enough that Doyoung's startled to see him in the kitchen, though it wears off quickly, replaced by relief that things are back to normal—that Taeyong is digging around in the freezer for his ice cream bars with his violently pink hair pushed back in a headband, drowning in a hoodie that nearly covers the hem of his shorts, one of his socks slipping down his calf. 

It's been three days since he moved back in, but Doyoung keeps having these moments, flashes of surprise and then contentment. It might be that, in the week before Taeyong went home to recuperate, he couldn't even stand up straight, wincing and hobbling from room to room. Doyoung hasn't seen him moving around with ease for a while; even when Taeyong visited the dorms in the middle of his rehab, he was slow to stand up and slow to sit down, taking his time to bend at the waist to peer into his fish tank and reassure himself that no one had forgotten to feed them. 

When Taeyong was officially summoned back to the dorms and a more or less regular schedule, Doyoung—probably the whole group—braced themselves to endure the same cut-off gasps of pain when Taeyong climbed out of a van, the same late-night encounters in the kitchen when a stooped-over Taeyong would heat up his microwavable heat wrap to get his back and hips to calm down enough to sleep. But Taeyong moved back into the dorms with some new clothes he'd bought with his mother, a new stuffed animal his nephew picked out, and a vitality he'd fashioned in the long weeks of nothing to do but take care of himself.  
  
The second day he was back, he made sure to wake up early to go up to the tenth floor to use Taeil's makeshift gym, and Mark said he did his reps while chattering happily to the dorm auntie about what she should make for breakfast. Mark sounded as bewildered by the shift as Doyoung felt; Taeyong had been in pain before, off and on over the years, but he was in _agony_ when he left, and everyone remembered how long it took Jaemin to heal. Taeyong being well enough to dance, to rehearse, to reassume his heavy mantle of responsibility, after not even two months? It seemed too good to be true.  
  
Taeyong sighs and closes the freezer, evidently resigned to his ice cream being gone. Doyoung is about to offer to go by the convenience store, or maybe order in, but then he notices Taeyong's hand goes to his waist, slipping under the thick hoodie, digging into the muscle. 

It's an old tell, years old, and it means he's in pain. Doyoung's alarm system immediately starts wailing. 

Taeyong's not a good liar, even as he's honed the pretending they do as idols to a fine art. Doyoung believed he was well enough to come back mostly because Taeyong can't conceal his pain, only downplay it. If he's been faking his miraculous improvement, giving everyone updates about how his exercises have strengthened his other muscles to take away some of the strain, how he sleeps well now, covering everything up with enthusiasm and energy, he's done so impeccably. If Doyoung fell for it, he'll be furious. 

"Are you okay?" Doyoung demands. Taeyong, so caught up in pursuit of ice cream that he didn't hear Doyoung come in, jumps with surprise and spins around. He's still holding his side. "Did you overdo it?" 

"Yah, you scared me," Taeyong says, mouth flattening. "Don't do that. I'll put a bell on you." 

"Your injury—" 

"It's fine," Taeyong says, and despite the way he's still frowning at Doyoung, his eyes turn knowing. "I didn't stretch enough after practice. It's not a big deal." 

"Do you have your heat pack?" 

"It's a stitch in my side, Doyoung-ah, I'm not going to turn into a little old man again. See?" He stretches big and wide, arms lifting to the ceiling, going up onto his toes to lengthen his body more. He does wince when his movement tugs at the stitch, but it's a small wince, and when he's done stretching, he smacks his lips with satisfaction. 

"You can't take chances with your body while it's still healing." 

Regardless of what the doctors and physical therapists said, that Taeyong's well on his way to recovery if he's careful and maintains the strict rota of exercises and appointments they've implemented, they're doctors and physical therapists the company hired. At the end of the day, Doyoung knows they're probably incentivized to put a positive spin on the truth. Even if Taeyong's made major improvements, he's obviously back too soon, and even worse, he's enough of an idiot to want to come back regardless of what state he's in. 

"I know, I know, relax. If it hurts tomorrow I'll move my next massage appointment up, okay?" He walks closer, strands of hair pushed up and out from the headband like a fan, wobbling with each movement. He nudges Doyoung's side with an elbow. "Do you have any ice cream in your freezer?" he asks, eyes calibrated to be wide and peeking up at Doyoung, but not so pathetic he worries. 

Doyoung does have a pint, about the only thing he can fit in the comically small freezer compartment of his mini-fridge, but it's a known rule that he doesn't appreciate people dipping into it. He's started charging Haechan and Jungwoo for the ciders or snacks they take thinking he won't notice. He always notices. 

"I do, and you can have it if you let me put some of that ointment on your side." 

"Wow," Taeyong says, deep and amused, "what a sacrifice for me. Ice cream and a massage." 

"We're doing it in your room," Doyoung announces, like Taeyong has to talk him into this and it's not him insisting. "I'm not getting gunk all over my bed." 

Taeyong waves halfheartedly over his shoulder, on his way to his room, and Doyoung watches him like a hawk for any sign of a limp, but there's nothing. Taeyong walks like he doesn't have a care in the world. 

\--- 

Despite how casually he offered and Taeyong accepted, they don't have a habit of giving each other massages. Sometimes in the practice room or the van during a hard, long day, members will squeeze each other's shoulders as a kind of pick-me-up, but it's more a gesture of support than anything therapeutic. When someone's really hurting, they go to the doctor, or they book a massage appointment. 

When Taeyong was up at all hours with the worst of it, and Doyoung was so exhausted from too many year-end performance rehearsals that he lived in a liminal mental space where nothing felt real, he couldn't stand hearing Taeyong's noises of pain when he hauled himself out of bed and down the hall to go to the bathroom. He couldn't sleep knowing it was that bad, bad enough Taeyong couldn't stay quiet anymore. Doyoung tried to make himself useful by knocking on Taeyong's door holding a towel and his own jar of Tiger Balm and a searching expression. Taeyong was miserable enough to let him try, wordessly hiking his shirt up and turning onto his stomach with his breath held as a defense against more noises slipping out. 

Doyoung was careful to be gentle, but pressing down with his thumbs on either side of Taeyong's spine made him vocalize a sort of muffled shout and bury his face in his giant stuffed rabbit. Doyoung did maybe ten minutes of testing prodding and poking at remarkably stiff muscles, until it became clear Taeyong couldn't handle any sort of pressure from the midpoint of his back down. He remembers biting his lip against frustration and secondhand agony hearing him like that, seeing Taeyong tremble, muscles starkly rigid, and being less than effective sticking to his shoulders.  
  
Taeyong left the dorms two days later, and the memory of that night kept playing on a loop in Doyoung's head in his absence. He's seen Taeyong vulnerable in a thousand different ways over the years, the most human and raw parts of him, identified the shades of pettiness and jealousy and pride that Taeyong is ashamed of and tries to keep hidden, but nothing rattled him like Taeyong in pain. The times Taeyong actively tried to piss him off didn't hurt as much as watching him suffer—not even eye-rolling dismissiveness of Doyoung's ideas, which he used to think was a whole lot more pointed than it was, ranked compared to this. 

This time, when he opens Taeyong's door, it's a totally different story. Taeyong is seated, one leg under him, the stuffed rabbit at the foot of the bed. He brightens when he spots the ice cream Doyoung brought, reaching out for it as Doyoung pretends to be begrudging about handing it over. He brought him a plastic spoon too, from the junk drawer in the kitchen where all the take-out odds and ends pile up. 

Taeyong pops the top and makes a face at the amount Doyoung's already eaten, but he digs in and sighs happily when he's had a few bites. Taeyong's changed in the years since they met as trainees, but he's still got the palate of a little kid. You can get him to do almost anything for sweets. 

He sits in Taeyong's gaming chair, looking over Taeyong's shoulder to survey his headboard to make sure the Tiger Balm is there. Taeyong's got lotions and two half-empty jars of the balm stored in his headboard, along with two packets of wet wipes, tissues, his keys, and spare earbuds. Doyoung is vaguely curious which of the lotions he uses for prurient purposes, or if he hides everything out of sight the way Jaehyun and Doyoung himself do. 

"Thank you for the ice cream," Taeyong says as he continues to demolish it. "I promise it's just a small ache, though." 

"Then you won't mind me putting ointment on it, will you?" Doyoung counters, in case Taeyong's trying to sneak a flareup past him. 

Taeyong just laughs under his breath and then clears his throat. Dairy always clogs him up, not that that's ever stopped him from having a giant Frappuccino before a performance. "Suit yourself," he mutters, and pops the spoon into the pint of ice cream nestled between his bare knees. "How do you want me?" 

Doyoung snorts at the question and indicates Taeyong should lie down on his stomach, like he did the first time they tried this. Taeyong extricates himself from his hoodie and the T-shirt under it, and if he _is_ lying about his pain levels, he's gotten really good at it. Unselfconscious, leaning forward enough that his slim stomach bunches up above the waistband of his shorts—Taeyong's mom has been feeding him well, and this is the most substantial he's been in a long time—he scarfs down one more huge bite of ice cream before setting it on top of his headboard. 

"Okay," he says cheerfully, muffling his voice in his pillow and wriggling his shoulders like some sort of demented invitation. "Do your worst!" 

Doyoung rolls over in Taeyong's chair. Last time, they tried to cram together on Taeyong's bed, which meant Doyoung ended up half crushing him a few times. It's just easier this way. Taeyong has to reach to hand him the Tiger Balm, and when Doyoung unscrews the cap it's the same pungent herbal smell from his childhood, when he used to get growing pains or didn't stretch enough after his walks.  


"Where does it hurt?" He can't remember which side Taeyong was rubbing, especially now that Taeyong's in a totally different position. 

Taeyong lifts an arm and points at the soft indent of his waist. It's the side closest to Doyoung, at least.  


The first noise Taeyong makes when Doyoung tentatively rubs his sticky fingers on his body is a sigh. Dubiously, Doyoung presses harder, actually digging into Taeyong's obliques, and Taeyong just reaches for his phone and sniffs, unbothered. 

"Here?" 

"Yeah," Taeyong confirms. "You can go harder." 

Doyoung does, and something loosens in his chest when Taeyong only makes one discontented noise when Doyoung's pushing with all of his force, like he's irritated with his body for hurting. Taeyong checks his messages and at one point tries to put on a YouTube video, but when Doyoung decides to be nice and give him a full massage now that he's ascertained that no, Taeyong isn't suddenly a fantastic liar, that it really is a small tweak, he turns off the display and sinks into his pillow. 

"S' nice," he slurs, when Doyoung glides his thumbs down either side of his spine from the base of his neck to his tailbone. 

He's no expert, but he's gotten massages himself and knows what's good, what spots get worn down or knotted up from dancing. He pays a lot of attention to his waist, accidentally getting some of the Tiger Balm on the band of Taeyong's shorts. Taeyong's skin is smooth, just one pimple dotting his right shoulder, and it strikes him then that this, and the disastrous massage attempt before, is the most of Taeyong he's ever touched at once. He's seen him in various states of undress a hundred times or more—all the way back to when they shared a room and Taeyong seemed to forget Doyoung had eyes—and he's slid a hand up Taeyong's shirt to tickle him, but this is different.  
  
Doyoung doesn't think about that, the fact that eight years in there are still more intimacies to tick off, parts of Taeyong he isn't familiar with. At one point, he wriggles his fingers close to the seam of Taeyong's armpit until he huffs into his pillow and squirms to indicate his displeasure. Doyoung isn't feeling mean, not right now; if anything, he's feeling alarmingly warm-hearted. Taeyong letting him do this to assuage his own worries says a lot, even if Taeyong's getting a massage out of it. The least Doyoung can do is make it good. 

"How're your legs?" He scoops up some more ointment and then grabs the handles of Taeyong's hips, making sure to apply extra pressure. The Tiger Balm is starting to absorb; his thumbs have skidded across Taeyong's skin a few times. 

"Hmm, pretty good," Taeyong says. "Still get some numbness or… pain shoots down. But a lot better." 

"The exercises are helping with that too?" 

Taeyong yawns, loud. He sounds sleepier with every second. "Yeah. With so much. I haven't been this fit since I was a trainee." The laugh he gives barely has breath behind it. "My butt is growing too. Like magic." 

Doyoung glances down at Taeyong's butt, the way the material of his shorts sag over it. "Keep telling yourself that, hyung." 

"No, really, it is." Taeyong squirms like he wants to flip over, but then he gives up because he doesn't want to end the massage. His head turns on the pillow, and one eye peers at Doyoung, imploring. The sleepiness Doyoung heard is all but gone now. "It's firmer. Feel it!" 

Bemused, Doyoung shakes his head, and Taeyong's eye narrows. "I don't need to feel it. I can see it fine." 

"Stop being weird and feel my butt, Doyoung," Taeyong says, the corner of his mouth curving as he delights in his own joke. 

"You're going to have to wash these shorts," Doyoung says as a warning, and after a second, he pats Taeyong's demonstrably tiny ass. He hasn't touched it in a while—the last time, maybe during _Punch_ promos? When Taeyong kept complaining about how roomy the jeans the designers put him were, like it was a deliberate insult. "Okay, sure, it's bigger." 

"It is _definitely_ firmer. The muscle is rounder," Taeyong insists, staring him down until Doyoung haltingly puts his hand back and presses. Taeyong's butt gives a little under the pressure, and maybe it _does_ have some more firmness to it. Whatever the physical therapists have him doing is giving him muscle, even if it's not making a visual difference. At least not with clothes on. 

"Well, your exercises are working," Doyoung admits. "Do you want me to rub your legs?" 

Taeyong considers this, sniffs, and nods, resettling on the pillow, tension going out of his shoulders. "It can't hurt." 

"It's supposed to do the opposite, actually," Doyoung jokes, but Taeyong ignores him. 

Doyoung rolls the chair further down the bed, and he ponders Taeyong's socks for a second, if he's really planning on touching that much of him. Why not? What's stopping him, some sense of propriety that should have been blown to smithereens years ago, when he had to pretend to be asleep and tune out Taeyong watching porn and jerking off in the dark? When Taeyong wiped him down after a disastrous night out when he came of age? Rubbing Taeyong's shins is nothing compared to that. 

"I'm taking your socks off," he warns. "Tell me if you get cold." It's odd Taeyong's wearing shorts in the first place, since he gets cold so easily. It must be laundry day. 

Taeyong makes a vague noise. Doyoung peels off the sock that's already slipped, and Taeyong wiggles his toes when his foot's free. The second sock comes off after some more substantial tugging. 

Doyoung considers how best to go about this next part. He's massaged his own calves plenty of times, just to make sure they didn't knot up on him and keep him up at night after a particularly long walk. Doyoung's leg muscles are basically made of steel at this point, so he needs to do it less nowadays. Taeyong's are also rock-solid, but his calves look almost dainty compared to Doyoung's. His ankles look barely sturdy enough to support his weight. 

He stops staring at Taeyong's legs and just starts rubbing, the right leg first from Taeyong's Achilles tendon to the back of his knees, which is when Taeyong gives a nervous giggle, like Doyoung's about to tickle him. He skips the area, though, instead getting a solid grip on Taeyong's thigh. Taeyong tightens up his muscles, forcibly relaxes, and then exhales heavily against his pillow, and Doyoung spends more time than he planned working the muscles in Taeyong's thigh, side to side. 

He shoves the shorts up an inch or two, not indecently, just enough to make sure he's effective. Taeyong's indicated he gets shooting nerve pain even up to his groin. The Tiger Balm has made Doyoung's palms and fingers all but numb, but he can still feel the crispness of the sparse hair on Taeyong's shins as he works his way back down. 

"Spread your legs for me," Doyoung murmurs, once he's ready to switch. 

The instance he processes what he said, he freezes, but Taeyong doesn't laugh or remark on his poor choice of words; in fact, Taeyong obediently parts his legs so Doyoung has room to work. 

He tells himself to stop dwelling, even though it feels like the last thing he said is suspended in the air between them. Taeyong doesn't care; he's sighing into his pillow again as Doyoung works up the back of his thigh. He reshifts his hips, getting comfortable, and Doyoung waits until he settles down to touch him again. 

Doyuoung's the one making this weird, his subconscious providing oddly loaded things to say, his thoughts threatening to veer off and marvel at how simultaneously strong and pliant Taeyong feels under his hands. 

He stubbornly focuses on his task. He takes notice of the way Taeyong's skin dimples under pressure and then floods with color, like a blush; he discerns exactly where Taeyong's skinny thighs get any extra padding; he hears the tiny moan of relief Taeyong gives when he works an especially taut muscle; he feels his heartbeat counting like a metronome in his ears, but he allows none of it to have any meaning, any impact. For him to do anything else would be an offense to Taeyong and their friendship. 

His hands, despite the numbing quality to the balm, do start to give out after so much exertion, and Doyoung feels like he's accomplished all he's going to. He straightens up in the chair, and it creaks with his movement. 

"Is there anything else?" he asks, brushing a strand of hair out of his eyes with his forearm, careful not to smear any leftover balm on his face. He casts a critical eye over Taeyong's legs like there will be visible proof of his work on his skin. 

Taeyong waits a second too long to reply, which is why Doyoung glances up to the head of the bed. "N-no." 

He's still burying his face in his pillow, muffled, but his hands have come up to clutch the edges of it, fingers digging in like claws. Somehow, Doyoung didn't notice him moving, stiffening up this much. His back is tense, his breathing shallow, the way it is when he's trying to keep his pain internal. 

Doyoung's feelings—carefully set aside—come crashing back with a vengeance. He's hurting _now_? After all of that? Did Doyoung make it worse somehow? 

"Are you having a flareup?" He wants to set his palm on Taeyong's back to find the offending muscle but is very aware that could make it worse. He's afraid of prompting those same agonized noises again. "Why didn't you say something?" 

"Uh, not—not a flareup," Taeyong says, but he clutches his pillow tighter, seems to shove his face even deeper, so much so he must be struggling to breathe. 

"Yes, you seem absolutely fine," Doyoung snaps. He rolls the chair closer to the head of the bed, where he tries to tug the pillow out from under Taeyong's face without using much force. "You can't even turn over, can you? Let me help you, don't be so fucking stubborn—" 

Taeyong makes a strangled, frustrated noise and flips over, so suddenly and violently (and fluidly, some part of Doyoung notes) that Doyoung, startled, slides the chair back half a foot. He notices Taeyong's askew headband and the wetness of his mouth first, then the wild, challenging look in his eyes. Then he sees that Taeyong is pointing at his dick like he's furious with it. "Congratulations, I'm not in pain, okay? There's your proof." His eyebrows pinch together as he grimaces. 

The thought hits Doyoung involuntarily— _I don't think pain's ever been a deterrent to you getting hard_ , quickly cut off, but in the next second as he scolds himself and watches Taeyong's hand flop to the mattress like a puppet with its string cut, he realizes his mouth is full of spit. Like it's the first time he's seen the outline of Taeyong's dick, hard or otherwise, through his clothes. 

It feels different, somehow, knowing it happened because of Doyoung's touch rather than in the middle of sleep. 

He's never been good at hiding what he feels, but he did learn at a certain point to put a steel trap over his mouth, always the thing most likely to get him in trouble. All those years of training mean it feels like he betrays himself when he says, "I can take care of it too, if you want." 

Doyoung is already plunging into regret, furious with the impulse that just snuck out at the first chance it got, but it's compounded by the look of pure shock Taeyong gains, which quickly smooths over into blankness. Taeyong's face looks like porcelain that no expression has ever stuck to. 

"What?" His eyes narrow, very slowly, as Doyoung scrambles for an explanation. 

"Sorry," he says, wheeling away as if distance might solve this. "Bad joke. Didn't mean to make you uncom—" 

Taeyong sits up on his elbows and sticks out a leg to halt Doyoung's progress, then kicks Doyoung's thigh so hard it hurts and sends the chair back some. He rests his foot on it to stop it and reels Doyoung in a few inches. "Don't fuck with me right now," Taeyong says. Doyoung knows him well enough to know he's actually angry, which makes shame grip him like a vise. "Did you mean that? Or were you just…" Whatever was propelling seems to stop. His foot is still braced on the chair, half on Doyoung's leg. Taeyong shakes his head like he's chilled. 

The first time Doyoung saw him, he was intimidated and then mad at himself for it, because how pathetic was he to care what an awkward, moody, occasionally shitty teenager thought of him? To Doyoung's nineteen-year-old self, Taeyong was only there because he was genetically lucky; he couldn't even _sing_ , not really, but people fell all over themselves for his face, his pitchy laugh. Meanwhile, Doyoung had to endure panels of people repeatedly offering critiques of his face, his body, the way he moved, and the way he spoke, and they had a laundry list of things wrong with his voice, the one thing he had some confidence in.  
  
Even as they got to know each other, it was easier to stay in the dynamics they learned—and were basically assigned by the company—as teenagers. They were at least reliable when almost nothing else in their life was. It took him too long to realize the motions they were going through were hollow. At a certain point, Doyoung wasn't behaving like the person he'd become, and neither was Taeyong. They weren't still children in constant competition anymore. 

They made a point of fixing it, after another explosive fight over nothing, another time they both took things far too seriously and wondered how fucking ridiculous they looked in front of the members. It was painful, necessary growth, and it took a few years for them to fashion new images of each other, a new understanding. But they did it. And now they are _best friends_ , even if it makes him uneasy knowing that his all-consuming job wormed itself this far into his personal life.  
  
When Taeyong was off recuperating, Doyoung talked to him almost every day. He told himself he was doing it to make sure Taeyong didn't go stir-crazy, to remind Taeyong of what was waiting for him, because he knew how much it would hurt to be cut off all of a sudden. He stopped by Taeyong's family home; he brought Taeyong to the dorms to check on his fish; he listened to him ramble about his games and his new stretches and how close he was getting to being able to stand up straight. 

Doyoung can't be Taeyong's creative partner the way that Mark is, and he isn't Johnny, who earned Taeyong's trust from day one, but he can be Doyoung. 

Last week, over breakfast, Johnny asked Doyoung how Taeyong was doing. Like he couldn't just text him and ask—and when Doyoung pointed that out, Johnny shrugged and said they weren't big on texting. He did wonder, then, if he was the only one Taeyong was bothering at all hours to ask about his day, to stay up with until their voices croaked over the line. He tried not to read into it. He tried not to feel proud. Possessive.  
  
He tried. 

"What is this?" Taeyong demands, as Doyoung agonizes in silence over what he's done, destroyed the progress he's made in seeing Taeyong as a whole person, not just a pretty face he was annoyed to want to fuck at nineteen. He's boiled them down to his worst impulses. "Is this more of that shit where I'm your kid?" His voice climbs as he keeps getting no response. 

That's so unhinged, Doyoung can't stop himself from replying. "What kind of a parental relationship do you—"  
  
"You know what I mean! You always have to take care of me. Is that it?" 

The benefit of now knowing Taeyong so well is that the mulish tilt to his jaw tells Doyoung they're on the verge of one of the fights like the old days. If Doyoung takes the easy way out and says, _Yes, that must be what it is, I don't actually want to suck your cock, I want to feed you and do your laundry_ , it's going to end in slammed doors and Johnny sticking his nose in to referee. 

"It was my mistake," Doyoung says as evenly as he can, as honestly as he can. "I'm sorry if it bothered you." 

Taeyong observes him, and Doyoung is aware of all the smooth skin below Taeyong's neck, the familiar lines of his body, the fact that he might even still be hard, but he keeps himself from looking. Doyoung's expression is an absolute farce, but Taeyong knows him just as well and will need no help to see through it. He says, low and exasperated, "Do you want to suck my cock or not?" 

Doyoung struggles to find an answer to that. There are too many options, too many doors that could lead to disaster. 

"It's a yes or no question, Doyoungie." Doyoung holds his gaze even as it turns, improbably, mischievous. He feels a little insane, caught between the best and worst thing that's ever happened to him. Taeyong grinds his heel into Doyoung's thigh. 

"You're so fucking annoying," Doyoung says, wanting to run back to his room and drink heavily. "Yes, all right? Yes." 

"You don't have to sound so mad about it," Taeyong says, and he pulls back his foot, lets it rest on the bed, but he's—Doyoung realizes he's pushing his shorts down, revealing more of his hips, and he… panics. 

This can't be happening, but it is. He has no playbook for this, nothing beyond guilty fantasies and a few well-controlled hopes while Taeyong snored in his ear and pushed his erection into Doyoung's back as he dreamed. Taeyong isn't actually supposed to want this. Doyoung would have known about it if he did. Wouldn't he? 

His voice fails him, like it can't bear to yell _Stop, fuck_ , but he manages to put a hand to Taeyong's chest. His hand looks wide and strong, reddened from all his work on Taeyong and the balm, and surely this is another place he's touched before, incidentally, but now it's new. It's different. 

Taeyong looks nervous now, chewing on his lower lip, staring at Doyoung's hand on his body, his own frozen, thumb hooked in the band of his shorts. 

"You don't have to just because I want to," Doyoung manages. He can't tell if he can feel Taeyong's pulse thrumming under his skin or if his own has gone haywire and it's resounding through his whole body. 

Taeyong doesn't say anything. He slowly, slowly moves his shorts and underwear down until Doyoung sees a soft thicket of dark hair. And then he doesn't stop. As he kicks his legs free of the fabric, he sinks onto his back from his elbows, going down as if Doyoung is the one pushing him even though he's not. 

When Doyoung sees his dick, mostly hard and pink against Taeyong's thigh, he makes a noise. He's seen Taeyong's dick before. He did not hold onto those memories because they weren't for him. But this is, somehow. 

He manages to stop staring at Taeyong's dick to look at Taeyong's face, incredulous. Taeyong's tongue is between his teeth, and he's tilted his head so he can peer up at Doyoung. He knows that look. _He knows that look._ He knows what Taeyong does when he needs to be the prettiest version of himself. 

Doyoung's hand spasms against Taeyong's chest. Taeyong gently covers it with his own, like he's insisting Doyoung shouldn't have the option of withdrawing. 

Is Doyoung supposed to lean over and take him into his mouth? Can he touch him more first? 

This is insane. 

"Please," Taeyong says, in his low, low voice, "take care of me, Doyoung." 

It's too much. It's like a flash fire inside of Doyoung's head. And Taeyong's not letting him go, not looking away, not vanishing like an apparition. He's hard, and he's expectant, and he's beautiful, and Doyoung is a flawed person who takes bad deals if it gets him what he wants. He joined SM, after all. 

Taeyong's hand gives Doyoung enough leeway to use his still balm-slick fingertips to tweak his nipple. Hard. So hard Taeyong yelps and arches off the mattress before slamming back down, and then Taeyong moans, his mouth opening, looking so beautiful and dumb and bewildered. He blinks like he's coming out of a dream. 

"Hyung," Doyoung starts, and swallows. It's hard to think with Taeyong in front of him, long and gangly and graceful and so familiar. He's restraining himself to glances. "You know the traffic light system? Red, amber, green?" 

Taeyong's mouth closes, and he nods. 

"Tell me your color if it changes," Doyoung says, and waits for a second nod that doesn't come, Taeyong's eyes tracing his face like he's reading something he can't believe. "Okay?" 

"Okay," Taeyong says, quiet. 

Doyoung, as a reward, pinches again, and Taeyong's next noise is a ridiculous squeak. 

The adrenaline surging through him makes him smile, as do Taeyong's wide eyes and his slowly dawning realization. "Do I need to put a pillow over your face?" Doyoung asks. "What happens when the ointment starts to kick in?" 

Taeyong's face registers what that means so openly, Doyoung feels himself get harder. When Doyoung gives his nipple a cruel flick, he moans again, too loud. 

He knows, he's known for a long time, what Taeyong wants, how he wants to be treated, and has no qualms about giving it to him. Even if Doyoung's voice sounds high and thready and ridiculous to his own ears, and he has plenty of qualms about everything else that will all come crashing down on him later, he's making the most of what he's given in this moment. 

To that end, he's gentler with Taeyong's other nipple. Too gentle, triggering Taeyong's sensitivity that way, dragging his nail around the stiff little peak until Taeyong's whimpering. He keeps closing his eyes, then opening them to look up at Doyoung, then staring down at his chest, his tight brown nipples turning even tighter under Doyoung's touch, and shuddering. 

"What did I say?" Doyoung says. "I don't want to put a pillow on your face, I want to see it, but you're such a fucking slut—" 

" _Doyoung_ ," Taeyong yelps, loud enough it could send people running, somewhere between astonishment and alarm. "What— _what_?" 

Doyoung, out of instinct, yanks his hand back. 

Taeyong struggles to climb onto his elbows again, but halfway through, he looks down at his chest, at his reddened nipples, and clamps a hand over one, hissing. "Oh shit." 

"Color?" Doyoung asks, worried he went too far and cursing himself for it. 

"Green," Taeyong says quickly, then hisses again and presses down on his burning chest. "Yellow," he admits a second later, sheepish. He sniffs in that particular ugly way that sometimes makes Doyoung worry about him and sometimes makes him want to throw his phone across the room out of knee-jerk irritation. "I just… Are you sure? This is how you want it?" 

He looks at Doyoung with such clear, vulnerable skepticism, like he can't believe it's possible Doyoung wants to shove Taeyoung around a little, be mean to him. Maybe he's been lulled into complacency by the last few months—years—too, when most of the fighting has been for cameras or just an old bad habit. Maybe he doesn't realize the intensity of Doyoung's feelings. 

Or maybe he just doesn't know what Doyoung's into, given the right circumstances. He definitely hasn't made a habit of broadcasting his personal life, especially after his last disaster of a relationship ending in her screaming at him in the elevator while a manager tried to convince her not to go outside and give sasaengs the scoop of a century. Doyoung is private; he keeps his interest in men between him and the men he sleeps with, and he keeps his occasional interest in tying them up and making them beg between them too. It's been so long, Doyoung almost forgot how heady it is. 

Eight years, several versions of each other in the room with them, and Doyoung can understand why Taeyong's asking. He's dated even less than Doyoung has, and if he does like men—if Doyoung isn't his first—he's never breathed a word of it either. Doyoung's had his theories, but never the confidence to ask about them.  
  
The fact that Taeyong's unsure, and honest enough about it, to put the brakes on and ask makes Doyoung blood sing in his veins, though. They trust each other. Even when it's hard to. 

"I got the rings because I couldn't exactly explain a leash, hyung," Doyoung admits, half laughing at himself, worried Taeyong might do it for him. He reins himself in enough to answer Taeyong's question with, "Yes, I'm sure." 

Taeyong's hand drops away from his chest, his abused, pretty nipples, and his lower lip pops out from between his teeth wet. He's so fucking beautiful, but Doyoung stopped wanting him for that a long time ago. 

"Oh," he says, and swallows hard. His eyes are a little blank the way they are when he's thinking. "Oh." 

"It's fine if that's too much," Doyoung adds, giving Taeyong more to work over, since he's already admitted guilt. "I didn't tell you… Well, for a lot of reasons. And then there's the group. If you want me to go," he says, mustering even more gentleness, trying to show Taeyong that he means this, he really does, "I can, or if you just want a blowjob—" 

"Okay, okay, I get it," Taeyong says, and then draws in a shaky breath. "Please just... shut up and get on the bed." 

Before Doyoung's even moved, even processed that, Taeyong's spreading his legs wide to make room, the same lack of self-consciousness he always has with his body when there's no stage, no photographer, no screaming fans. He's not keeping track of what it looks like, his posture or if his stomach looks alluringly trim, and Doyoung scrambles to maneuver under a leg that almost bashes him in the cheekbone. 

"Ah, sorry," Taeyong says, and anxiously reaches down to touch Doyoung's shoulder, to trail fingers across his cheek. Doyoung nearly shivers from the touch. He's not sure what to do with it. He's aware that he's hornier than he's been in years, that his dick is straining in his pants, but his body feels like nothing more than an instrument to enact upon Taeyong. 

"Green?" Doyoung asks, stroking just under Taeyong's navel, playing with the hair above the base of his cock, still hard. He tugs once, but nothing that would even register, if he's right about Taeyong's preferences. 

"Yeah, green," Taeyong says. Then he laughs, a nervous, excited, scratchy giggle. "My nipples _hurt_ , shit, this is so weird." 

"You should play with them." Doyoung knees even further forward, spreading Taeyong even more, to the point where Taeyong's ass is lifting from the mattress. "Doesn't that sound good? Playing with yourself while I suck your needy little cock?" 

"Oh my _God_ ," Taeyong gargles. One hand fumbles to rub his nipple as Doyoung requested, though he can't seem to keep it up when Doyoung starts kissing his stomach. 

Doyoung's bending himself over at an angle that is not going to be pleasant later. He slides his hand under Taeyong's skinny ass and squeezes. "Hmm, maybe it is bigger." 

"I told you," Taeyong says, and then hiccups when Doyoung takes his dick into his mouth, suckling softly so it makes noise when he does. "Oh. _Oh._ " 

Doyoung pops off—he has an impression of salt, clean skin, Taeyong's familiar smell in his nose to the point where it's overloading his brain. His lips buzz like he's been kissed. "I was joking about the pillow, but you can't be this loud." He nuzzles the head with his open, sensitive mouth and digs his fingers deeper into the muscle of Taeyong's ass. He wonders how much of the Tiger Balm is still on his skin, and if Taeyong will feel it if— "If I put a finger in your asshole, you'd feel like you're dying," Doyoung says, and meaningfully starts sliding his hand. 

Taeyong puts his forearm over his mouth and muffles a shriek. Doyoung smiles, but he does need Taeyong to speak for a little while longer. 

"Can you handle it on your balls?" he asks. 

Taeyong nods vigorously, and he spreads himself even further, to the point where Doyoung is concerned for his back. He uses his other hand to hold Taeyong up, tilting his hips toward Doyoung's mouth, but not before giving Taeyong's balls a languorous squeeze. 

The noises Taeyong is making, and trying valiantly to muffle in his arm, his teeth starting to dig into his skin, sound oddly familiar. Doyoung nearly laughs when he realizes it's the same noises he makes when he's whining about being sore from a long day of dance rehearsal, the same assortment of vocalizations Doyoung's heard a thousand times. It reminds him of how fucking funny it is that Lee Taeyong's dick in his mouth—the same man who Doyoung once nearly punched over instant ramen, the same leader he's proud to sit next to in all of their endless interviews. He hums instead of laughs, and Taeyong finds a new noise at that sensation. 

Doyoung can tell when the balm sets in on his balls, because Taeyong starts squirming like he's trying to unseat him, trying to stop Doyoung's soft, slow, attentive mouth as he sucks and swirls his tongue. Doyoung likes giving head; he's been starved for it for a while, of his own volition, but frankly he's rarely had the opportunity to give it to someone as satisfyingly responsive as Taeyong. 

To keep his mind off the burning, Doyoung angles his head to take Taeyong as far down as he can from this position, tickling the back of his throat. Taeyong groans, then gasps, and Doyoung realizes he's freed his mouth when he says, "No, your throat! Be… be careful, ah." 

Doyoung slurps off of him and looks up Taeyong's body, practically folded in half for him. Again, he worries about what this could do to his back, and he shifts forward to brace his knees under Taeyong as best he can, so he has something to rest against. It's a pity he can't use his hands to jerk him off; he suspects Taeyong would tell him yes, that he would want that pain, but Doyoung doesn't want to ingest any Tiger Balm and turn his lips painfully numb. 

Doyoung swallows a mouthful of spit and Taeyong's precome without a visible grimance. "Relax. Your dick isn't big enough to damage anything. I'm on vocal rest tomorrow anyway." 

Taeyong looks at him, tremulous, eyes almost as wet as his open, panting mouth. "Just—be careful." 

"I won't be down here long enough to need to be careful. If I do that two more times, you're going to come down my throat." 

Taeyong's eyelids flutter, and he puts his arm back over his face. So Doyoung does it once, and Taeyong jerks, then goes still and taut like he's going to be in trouble for shoving his hips up and nudging his dick that much further into Doyoung's throat. Doyoung takes his time sucking back down and then tonguing over the head, working more precome out of him, and notices Taeyong's muffled noises tilt up in pitch and urgency. He makes one last attempt at taking him deep, and this time his gag reflex throws out a warning. 

Doyoung's jaw is already aching and out of practice, and it's lucky for him that Taeyong is as easy as he is, because he chokes something that might be _Coming,_ and it spills into Doyung's throat, coating the back of his tongue. He can feel it. He moans, his eyes closing for the first time, giving up their view of Taeyong's stomach sucked in so tight, his long legs pulled up like he's going to get fucked, and just enjoys it. 

Semen is disgusting, but it's Taeyong's, and Doyoung lets him pulse and pulse in the warm safety of Doyoung's mouth, even sliding forward a little and taking it on the flat of his tongue, in case Taeyong's watching. He sucks to see if Taeyong has more to give, and Taeyong's moans change, exposed to the air instead of muffled now, his arm lax at his side when Doyoung blinks his eyes open to check on him. 

Taeyong's litany of noises turn wounded when Doyoung gets everything out of him, pushes him past his orgasm and into oversensitivity, but he lies there and takes it. Doyoung shows mercy and slides off, leaving him with a kiss, watching his red-pink dick shine with Doyoung's spit and slowly shrink. He's a decent size, but Doyoung already knew that; the _needy little cock_ was to calibrate Taeyong's reaction, and anyway he fits in Doyoung's mouth perfectly. 

He gently guides Taeyong's hips back down to the mattress, and Taeyong starts pulling at the shoulder of Doyoung's oversized T-shirt. Happy, a little smug, power and satisfaction and the sympathetic edge of Taeyong's orgasm running wild in him, Doyoung crawls up Taeyong's body. 

What greets him is enough to give Doyoung fodder in the shower for the next year, maybe decade. Taeyong's limp with pleasure, his eyes bleary, so much so he almost suspects he's been crying, but there are no tears on his cheeks. He stares at Doyoung, his white teeth peeking from behind his lips, and then, weak-limbed, he tries to arrange Doyoung to lie next to him. 

It seems to take all of Taeyong's strength to move onto his side, even with Doyoung steadying him. 

"Hi," Taeyong says, when a semblance of clarity has returned to his eyes and he looks sleepy and fucked out rather than drifting. Doyoung hopes it was a gentle transition. 

"Hi." 

He worried about this—what the aftermath would be like. If Taeyong would get embarrassed or regretful, or if he would send Doyoung out of his room casually like it was a business transaction concluded. He’s guarded, not ready for but certainly anticipating any of it, but Taeyong looking at him from six inches away on his pillow, swallowing heavily and letting his breathing settle, was not on his list. 

"Do you…" Taeyong frowns and looks at Doyoung's mouth. Whatever he's working up to seems to be giving him a fight; Doyoung just lies there, ignoring everything else but what Taeyong needs. "Do you like kissing?" 

It's clear he didn't want to ask but that he couldn't help but ask. It's clear Doyoung, in his haze of lust and sudden permission, didn't explain himself enough. His heart bangs against the glass case he's put it in for safekeeping, deep in his chest. 

"Of course I want to kiss you," Doyoung says, and Taeyong's eyes lift from the careful study he was doing of Doyoung's chin to meet his, big enough for Doyoung to fall into. His goddamn eyes. "I probably should have led with that, in retrospect." 

"I was pretty sure," Taeyong murmurs. He's the one closing the gap between them, the one startling Doyoung with a hand gliding over his waist above his T-shirt to pull him in. "You looked like you wanted to eat me." 

"I do," Doyoung says with a quiet laugh, and he isn't shy about pressing his sore, wet mouth tasting of Taeyong's come to Taeyong's plush lips and working his way inside. 

Taeyong's hand clenches in his shirt, and he pulls Doyoung closer, even as his tongue glides over Doyoung's like silk, tasting himself and apparently not deterred by it. It turns into sticky, mumbly kissing, since Taeyong doesn't ever run out of noises and Doyoung can't help a few of his own when he finally, finally gets to rub his dick against something, namely Taeyong's stomach. 

Taeyong grinds back against him, but he pulls away with something like surprise and says, "Shit, you didn't come. Hold on." 

He reaches up to his headboard and grabs the first bottle of lotion he finds, and Doyoung's gut—which has been tightening since Taeyong melodramatically flipped himself over and announced his erection—pangs with want. It takes him until Taeyong's wriggling his hand down Doyoung's sweatpants to process that he's going to come, and soon. 

"I don't need lotion," he says, a little hoarse, as Taeyong grabs his dick like he's going for a handshake. His fingers are about as long as Doyoung's, and he gives a squeeze that makes Doyoung's thoughts shatter before they've fully coalesced. "I'm not going to last. Shit." 

Taeyong, naked even as Doyoung's still wearing his shirt and sweatpants, one leg tangled between Doyoung's calves like this is any other night they spend in Taeyong's bed, lazy on their phones, gives him an efficient and exquisite handjob under his clothes. Doyoung gasps into his mouth, and Taeyong laughs and rubs his thumb over the head, where Doyoung's leaking like crazy, his dick so swollen it hurts. 

"How long?" he asks, lips bumping Doyoung's. 

Doyoung scratches over his hip with blunt nails, right on the edge, making an aggrieved noise when Taeyong slows down. "What?" he returns, muzzy, hunting for Taeyong's warm, soft mouth again, wanting to bury his sobs into it when he comes in Taeyong's grip, but Taeyong evades him. He gives the side of Doyoung's mouth a little kiss. 

"How long?" 

"How long I've wanted to fuck you? Since the day I met you, un-unfortunately. Oh, Christ, just like that." 

"No, Doyoung-ah," Taeyong says, huffing a laugh, his warmth breath hitting Doyoung's face, and he's so gone in the moment and the urgency to come that it isn't disgusting. He still smells a little like strawberry ice cream. He kisses Doyoung's cheek and leans back to look at him, his hand speeding up. His gaze is sweet but assessing as he asks, "How long have you been in love with me?" 

Doyoung's caught out, like someone's hit him upside the head with a chair, in the same moment his body wracks with a long, hard orgasm. He thinks he makes noise; he thinks he closes his eyes so he doesn't have to bear Taeyong, the answer he must read in Doyoung's face, the most honest it's ever been. 

When he stops shooting against Taeyong's palm, making a mess of his clothes, he realizes he's wearing a rictus of an expression, like he was in pain. 

Taeyong hums and slides his hand out of Doyoung's pants. He must wait for Doyoung to open his eyes, which he does because there's no escaping it. He's terrified and overwhelmed and drunk with endorphins, his heart racing. When Taeyong knows Doyoung's watching, that he's not flinching away, he licks his sticky fingers and makes a contemplative face. Even though Doyoung knows how much bodily fluids activate his fight-or-flight response. 

He doesn't know everything about Taeyong, he reminds himself. He didn't know this, for starters. 

But Doyoung does know when he's showing off and shoves at his hip, which makes Taeyong laugh. He wipes the rest of the mess on Doyoung's shirt and goes back to looking at him, eyebrows raised but expression otherwise beatific. 

"I don't know why you're being shy about this," Taeyong says, mouth curving like he's about to tell a great joke, and Doyoung can't do that right now. 

"I don't know," he says, and clears his throat. "I don't know when." 

Taeyong seems to weigh that, and as he does, the smile melts from his face, though he doesn't look unhappy, merely thoughtful. He nods after a moment and huffs, pulling Doyoung against his broad but still very skinny chest, unmindful of the come Doyoung's going to smear on him. Doyoung tries to find a comfortable place to rest his chin. 

"Okay," he says, and Doyoung feels the tension in his body as he manages, "Me either." 

Doyoung's heavy exhale makes Taeyong laugh, just one breathy noise that shakes his shoulders, and Doyoung allows himself a moment to bask in relief, in what's left of the afterglow, in the pure improbability of the night. Taeyong smooths a hand up and down his back, which makes some very recently revealed parts of Doyoung ache. Then he feels Taeyong draw his leg back from between Doyoung's. 

"I know you're about to pass out," he says, mumbling into Doyoung's hair, "but my balls hurt so bad. We have to get up so I can wash." 

Doyoung squeezes him as tightly as he can, burying his laugh in Taeyong's shoulder. 

\--- 

Despite the many hours of conversation Doyoung and Taeyong have racked up over the last few months, neither of them are inclined to sit down and hash out their seismic shift. Doyoung still feels like a snail deshelled, and Taeyong—aside from one sleepy request for a kiss before they dropped off to sleep the night before—isn't jumping up and down to talk about it either. 

The morning, in the shower, brought Doyoung's carefully repressed worries back. He got shampoo in his eye he was so distracted, wondering which of his predictions would come true. Would Taeyong say it wasn't worth the risk of being found out? Would he decide it was just too strange to withstand? Would Doyoung bother to protest or just walk away apologizing for the liberties he's already taken? 

The shampoo incident puts Doyoung behind schedule, and he arrives at the van meant to take them to practice to find Taeyong already seated next to Mark. Doyoung climbs into the back with Jaehyun, but before he does, he sees Taeyong's wearing his ring, and he gives Doyoung an unreadable look after glancing down to see Doyoung's hand is bare. 

There's no tiny, cheerful, "Good morning." 

Doyoung, worried and trying to hide it, attempts to follow along with Jaehyun's low conversation as he studies Taeyong's ears sticking out on either side of his tight beanie as the engine comes to life. He runs more calculations, prepares more gracious concession speeches in his head. 

The ice is broken when they're at Starbucks. The manager is chatting with the barista they've become friendly with, Taeyong and Doyoung—several steps behind him, trying to give him space—off to the side, Mark predictably using the bathroom. 

Taeyong waits until the blender is going to idly remark, "Yah, I hope I don't lose the ring you got me at practice. I know you spent a lot of money on it." 

Taeyong's a terrible actor. A terrible liar. It's always going to be true. 

Taeyong's not distant because he's regretful. Taeyong's distant because Doyoung went off to shower alone without so much as a good morning, too worried about their schedule and his own bullshit, and then he was late to the van. 

Eight years in, and Doyoung still manages to fuck up regularly. Relieved, and a little sorry, he snorts and taps his foot against Taeyong's ankle. "Mine's in my bag, asshole. And if you lose yours, you're paying to replace it. I'm not made of money. I can't buy infinite leashes." 

Taeyong's in profile, pretending the display of branded mugs is far more interesting than Doyoung, but Doyoung sees his eyes soften and crinkle above his mask with a smile. 

**Author's Note:**

> Here's the fic's [playlist on Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0QHaWt2g6ckz5WvFhSUI3I?si=PyZydogKS0uvJdyE6yBWcw), and here's the tracklisting:
> 
> Clairo - Softly  
> Rocoberry - Old Habits  
> The Weeknd feat. Daft Punk - I Feel It Coming  
> Vancouver Sleep Clinic - Killing Me to Love You  
> 1975 - By Your Side  
> The Neighbourhood - Pretty Boy  
> ZAYN - Sweat  
> DAY6 - 1 to 10
> 
> Follow me on Twitter at [@sssneakiest](https://twitter.com/sssneakiest)! 🐍


End file.
